Page 27

“Lucky guess.” My skin darkens as our eyes meet.

Something passes between us—an acknowledgment that we’ve reached a breaking point. Too many secrets, too many careful evasions.

“Dante—” she begins, but I cut her off.

“You know, I’ve been wondering about something. How does someone with a pharmaceutical background recognize hunter weapons so easily? How does she know exactly which poison is spreading through my wing without the lab equipment that would provide extensive analysis?”

The monitor bracelet on my wrist beeps a warning as my temperature spikes. Her eyes flick to it automatically, always the scientist tracking her subject’s responses.

“I told you; I studied cryptid physiology—”

“Stop.” The word emerges as a growl. “No more half-truths. No more careful deflections. My life is literally on the line here, Blair. What aren’t you telling me?”

For a moment, I think she’ll retreat behind scientific terminology again. Instead, she sets down her equipment with deliberate care, shoulders slumping in what looks like defeat.

“My father.” The words come out barely above a whisper. “He… specialized in developing weapons designed to target specific cryptid species.”

The simple statement lands like a physical blow. My skin transitions to pure obsidian as implications cascade through my mind faster than I can absorb them.

“Your father.” My voice emerges unnaturally calm. “The biochemist.”

“Thehunter.” Her correction comes with a quiet dignity that somehow makes it worse. “He’s been hunting cryptids for decades. After my mother was killed by a basilisk when I was four, my dad… changed.”

My wings pull tight against my back, defensive posture automatic as the revelation expands. “So, when you recognized the weapon signature in my wing—”

“It’s his work.” Her gaze doesn’t waver despite the tremor in her voice. “An improved version of something we were developing when I was still working with him. Before I understood what the consequences really meant.”

“Working with him.” Each word feels torn from my throat. “You were a hunter, too. Did you hunt us? Kill one, ordozensof us?”

She doesn’t deny it. “I grew up in his laboratory. By eight years old, I could identify fourteen different cryptid species by their biological markers alone. I was proficient with all the weapons he used, but our hunts focused on tracking and intelligence gathering. I never directly encountered a living cryptid in the field until I was at Apex. I never killed any of you.

“All this time…” My voice breaks as realization crushes me. “Your spreadsheets. Your observations. Your tests. You were what, gathering intelligence? Studying our weaknesses?”

“No!” The anguish in her voice would be convincing if my world hadn’t just been turned upside down. “That’s not it at all. I was taught that cryptids hunted humans, and it was our job to track their movements and develop countermeasures to protect humanity. When I discovered what Apex was really doing—how they were treating sentient beings—I couldn’t be part of it anymore.”

“Yet you kept it secret.” Betrayal burns hotter than the poison in my wing. “You let us believe you were just a scientist with a crisis of conscience.”

“Would you have trusted me if you’d known?” Her question carries no defensiveness, only sincere inquiry. “Would any of you have let me stay if I’d introduced myself as ‘Blair Andrews, daughter of William Andrews, whose life mission is hunting cryptids’?”

The truth of her assessment only fuels my anger. “So instead, you lied. Pretended to be something you’re not, while documenting our every weakness.”

“I never lied about what I am now.” Her chin lifts with unexpected defiance. “Yes, I was raised to hunt. Yes, I grew up believing cryptids were monsters. But everything changed when I actually met one of you.”

“When exactly?” My tailslashes the air, the plated end making a high whistling noise. “When did this miraculous conversion happen? Before or after you helped develop weapons todestroyus?”

Pain flashes across her face. “Three months into my position at Apex, they brought in a captured Sasquatch. For the first time, I was working with a living subject, not just samples or tales from my father.”

The clinical terminology only heightens my disgust. “A subject. Is that what I am to you? Another fascinating specimen for your research?”

“No!” Her voice breaks on the single syllable. “You’re nothing like… Dante, everything between us has been real.Everything.”

The words twist the knife deeper, because despite my rage, the mate bond still pulses between us, still recognizes something genuine in what we’ve shared.

“And yet you never mentioned your hunter background.” My voice is dangerously quiet. “Never thought it relevant to mention that your father creates weapons specifically designed to destroy us. Or to let it slip that you helped him for years, then willingly went to work for Apex after you got your degrees.”

“I was afraid,” she admits, the simple truth somehow more devastating than any excuse. “Afraid that if you knew, you’d only see the hunter’s daughter, not the person I’ve become. Not someone who would do anything to protect you and this sanctuary.”

My laugh holds no humor. “Protect us? With a father actively hunting cryptids? How convenient that hunter teams found our location so easily. Almost as if they had inside information.”